So, a show of hands, folks. Who here will admit to that familiar tightness in the throat and watering of the eyes when you catch the training and fight scenes in first and last "Rocky" movies? I've seen them all. Followed the saga of the Italian Stallion over the course of his cinematic life and my real life. A couple were downright corny, including his fight with the Russian -- Sly Stallone was a bit more concerned about inserting his then girlfriend, Brigitte Nielsen, into his flicks then he was in content -- and the storyline where he mentors the young street fighter who then turns on him for a bigger and better deal only to end up brawling in the city streets at night.
But the brilliance of the original Oscar-winning film and the tying of loose ends in the final film, both served up with the instantly recognizable theme song, 'Gonna Fly Now,' and that triumphant run up the 72 steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art, gets to me. While Stallone's acting chops continue to find their power in his punches and pectorals as opposed to any change in his methodology, his belief in overcoming adversity remains true blue throughout the boxing saga.
My husband has a knack for catching classic movies at that critical moment where everything comes to a head and the viewer is unable to look away or click away. "The Shawshank Redemption," "A Few Good Men," and, yes, any of the "Rocky" flicks, seem to be on a constant rotation, station to station, week to week, day and night.
This afternoon I was sucked into the old school training session of the "Rocky Balboa" finale. That was it. I teared up as he ran with his little dog. (Was that a sweatshirt on his four-legged friend?) I held my breath as he hefted the metal barrel over his head. I worried as he strained under the weight bar that his veins might burst. And, I surreptitiously wiped tears from the corners of my eyes, peeking over at the couch to make sure my husband had not seen this, as memories of Rocky's dead wife (you know who she is!) spurred our ageing hero through nine tortuous rounds against his young in-need-of-a-character-lesson opponent. Per my usual, I couldn't help wondering why his face always has to resemble hamburger at the end of every movie?
It's all over now. The fade-out scene of a taped hand held in the grip of an adoring fan rolled out the credits. I attempted my nap, cuddled with that TV-surfing husband of mine on the narrow couch, but failed miserably. Still, I felt as if I had conquered something. Me and Mr. Balboa. Together on a humid Tennessee afternoon. Together through our 42-inch flat screen. Together on a rough road of knockdowns and rope-climbing returns to a standing position.
Like he says, it's not how many times you fall down but how many time you can be hit, over and over, and still get back up, still keep moving forward. When a thing is true, it's just true. Rocky Balboa just has a knack for making it sound simple to believe and simple to accept.
Rocky don't lie.
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